


The Sky Above

by AAluminium



Category: American Revolution RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 05:58:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19847041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AAluminium/pseuds/AAluminium
Summary: And damn it, I wanted to change it. God is my witness, I tried. Perhaps, I went off the deep end, although I strove to work out the kinks.





	The Sky Above

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jean-Wiliam](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jean-Wiliam), [Meegs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meegs/gifts), [Vicky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vicky/gifts).



It is astonishing how many things are crossing your mind when you’re captured – and what a ridiculous number of events in fact has a meaning. Am I scared? Hard to say; I do not regret any single deed of mine; I do not regret anything at all, and probably, if I could go back in time and change the current situation, I would nonetheless let it happen. After all, there is no war without casualties; and I did serve my country, I have something to be proud of; I didn’t desert from the army, I didn’t hide away from the enemy, I did not frame my comrades nor did betray them.   
There is no war without casualties. A war without casualties doesn’t make any sense. 

For some reason, I am locked up in a greenhouse: either the British haven’t found a good barn for me, or they consider me to be a big fish deserving nothing but royal honors, which I do not care about; but I at least like the view as I can see the stars above. The roar of the guns is not heard from here, so if you have enough imagination you can go back in time picturing the past. Remember, at college, you crawled into a garden and stole a bunch of apples and then, at night, stared at the cloudless sky. It was so much easier back then: all the problems were speculated on, then analyzed hypothetically at Linonia sessions; you kept alluding to literature, scientific works and theories that had been represented by antique philosophers or by the modern speakers who seemed to be waking up. We were discussing the world around reducing it to a mathematical formula; the mathematical formula was on the contrary to be unfolded as _universum_ with interacting parts – and we managed to interpret the connection between them. Theoretically. I wrote letters to my parents to Coventry although knowing they wouldn’t feel the same enthusiasm at the discoveries I made; a mere boy, I got mesmerized by numbers, words, theories and philosophy; Yale became the center of the world to me where I was distancing from my family and simultaneously gaining something new: my future and my friends. 

Tallmadge was never interested in astrology, but his inherent love of beauty urged him to spend hours staring at constellations he made out perfectly. Along with it, he recollected various extracts from antique tragedies, referred to certain _loci communes_ , compared himself to different personages and speculated on the subjects of religion and duty: he mentioned it so frequently that I sometimes failed to grasp the nature of his conclusions. His way of thinking confounded me; he spoke of God easily, as well as of the country; he didn’t hesitate to notice that a human being had to believe in something, that a human being simply needed an idea to live for. An infant, unable to meditate on their own, was unconsciously supported by the idea of their mother; an adolescent probably considered their hobbies and interests to be one; and a man would be bolstered by the notion of the duty which was to be carried out in relation to the family or to the government. Tallmadge didn’t insist on faith in God, and it dazed me: this was not the image of a clergyman’s son I had in mind. I was sure he would recite the Scripture and rectify the mistakes his classmates made trying to bring up the topic of religion. But Tallmadge just smiled if heard anything of the kind – he rarely got into an argument related to the subject. 

That causes me to grin… I remember that he immediately drew my attention: one of the tallest students, upstanding and staid, he distinguished himself by the intent look and intelligent gaze. We, greenhorns, didn’t have the slightest clue of what we were going to do, but Tallmadge didn’t seem to doubt his intentions. It wasn’t the only thing that astonished me, though: he turned out to be one hell of a rascal. Together, we were hooking apples from someone’s garden, and then, laughing loudly, fell into the grass knowing it would leave green stains on the knees. He managed to combine his love for classics with his respect for the Scripture filtering it and interpreting it in such a simple and soulful way that it could touch even the ossified heart of a skeptic. Despite our age – we were about fourteen at the time, – he already had a purpose, and, probably, his mindset influenced me. 

We loved that sky with stars above… Infinite, endless, unfolding over the heads as a vast cover with scattered brilliants of constellations. We were Socrates and Aristotle, we turned into Addison and Steele’s personages, we tried the roles of Achilles and Patroclus, and, chatting without a pause during the day, barely said two words at night. Tallmadge, normally friendly and frank, tended to lock up inside of his head, and kept musing… I reminisce how he pensively quirked up his eyebrows, hummed under breath and then tossed away the apple core – he just finished one of the apples we had purloined. I didn’t say anything – it was Tallmadge who spoke first. 

“Nate,” Ben uttered in a calm voice although his gaze was still focused on the sky as if he was addressing the moon itself, “What is freedom for you?” 

I didn’t expect such a question. I thought he was going through some romantic drama: lasses fluttered eyelashes at him all the time, and I always wondered whether he noticed those stealthy glances walking across the street or dancing at parties our mates used to arrange. 

“Well,” I was evidently perplexed, “Well, it’s… the sky above,” the answer suddenly popped out of nowhere, “That’s a choice. That’s a choir of voices in a unison.” 

“Exactly.” 

Tallmadge pulled out another apple, wiped it, and turned his pale visage to me. I still recollect this intent stare – and the flummoxed gaze when he noticed his grazed knees after falling from a tree. The image of a child I knew did not coincide with the picture of a man brooding over existential problems.

“But we do not have a choice.” 

At the time I didn’t understand him, although his words got stuck in my head… and right now I fully comprehend what he was talking about. Right now, as a recalcitrant, as a revolutionary, I fully comprehend what he was talking about. 

We do not have a choice. 

We did not choose the confiscatory taxes and rotten justice system. We did not choose venal advocates always standing with the British even if they themselves sparked off the conflict. We did not choose the military dominance, limits on rights and disdain towards our nation. We did not choose anything; and even this theatrics, this joke election to the local council morphed into Commedia dell’Arte, which consisted only of two masks: Pulcinella and Scaramuccia. We are not cattle; we are people, human beings, we will not let them use us. We will not let them brutalize us. Even though our chances are slim, we will do everything in power to assert our rights and liberties. 

And damn it, I wanted to change it. God is my witness, I tried. Perhaps, I went off the deep end, although I strove to work out the kinks. Perhaps, I lacked the necessary skills. Perhaps, I was intoxicated by the idea that _my_ American Hercules was fighting their British Hydra. Never have I ever sought glory. It was enough for me to realize that I was not standing still, that I kept moving forward in the name of the values I cherished back at Yale. I move forward in the name of my memories – in the name of the life the nonchalant lad Nathan Hale led; I move forward in the name of loud laughter and noisy games; in the name of those stolen apples, for god’s sake!.. I can’t believe we used to whisper dirty jokes in the dead of night not really understanding what they meant; I can’t believe we used to creep out of our bedrooms to bring some crazy plans into life and, sleepy but satisfied in the morning, chortle during the lessons as we were guarding some common mystery. It seems so distant and inconceivable to me that the kaleidoscope of the events turns into a vivid blur which… which I regret to lose… 

Tomorrow I will be executed. I asked for the Bible and a priest, but was denied. Am I afraid? Partially; I would be telling a lie if I said I didn’t feel anything. But consternation doesn’t grip me either. I cannot even describe my emotions to myself: there is no fear of the unknown. I sense agitation and trepidation, apprehension, for sure… that’s the same vivid blur as the entangled reminiscences. It’s bitter to go: I didn’t say goodbye to my parents, I didn’t hug my brother, I didn’t pat Tallmadge on the shoulder… ah that Scripture of his as an answer to any question!.. It is bitter to realize I will be no more: I do not quite comprehend the whole extent of the thought – that’s why I probably do not cling to life. I would love a little more time. I would love a little more strength to stand straight and to stare into the eyes of everyone present at the execution. I would love some understanding – I would love to be heard. 

“Captain Hale?” a low voice came at the door of the greenhouse. I didn’t notice the dawn broke. “Follow me.” 

“Morning, Captain Montresor. What time is it?” 

I habitually maintain the conversation as if my demeanor will replace the execution by a better option. 

“Eight,” he seems to be baffled by the question, “You… Are there any wishes to be fulfilled before…” 

“Yes. I would like to write a letter to my mother and to my brother.” 

I hardly remember what I have written… There was no more Yale enthusiasm and pathos: they gave way to bitter regret that I could not do more, that I would never see our victory and our new government… that I would never see that dark cloudless sky above. 

“Captain Hale, please…” 

Montresor’s voice slightly cracked; it was evidently his first time taking part in public execution, so he barely understood what to do. 

“Thank you.” 

He got abashed. Another British, whose name I do not know, reads the sentence aloud. General Howe squints at the sun hitting him in the eyes – the rays are persistently piercing the grey canvas of the clouds. There is not a familiar face in the crowd but the red coats. But I do not spot either repulsion or gloating exultation. 

“Your last word?” 

“I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country”.


End file.
